


Hate Blossomed Roses

by RemixConstellation



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (minor) - Freeform, (sort of), Enemies to Lovers, Fate & Destiny, M/M, Magic, Roses, age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-19 23:34:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16544459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemixConstellation/pseuds/RemixConstellation
Summary: They thunder into Camelot, thunder on a quiet and clear night. They thunder in and Merlin’s heart still beats louder. They thunder in, and there’s a boy ripped from the king’s stead, and cradled in Merlin’s arms.





	Hate Blossomed Roses

The first time Merlin sees him, re-sees him, all he can think is “he is young.” So young, for the hate that curls about him. He’s not- he isn’t the boy Merlin once knew. His cheeks are cliff edges, no soft roundness. His eyes, old when he was knee-high, are now ancient. Merlin has seen elder’s with fewer galaxies greying their irises. He doesn’t trust this boy, with his sharp edges and his brutal tongue. He doesn’t trust this boy, who destiny says will be the downfall of a kingdom.

So he watches him, this child. Merlin watches the easy grace with which he moves. He watches the muscles, still growing, shift beneath skin sun and moon blessed. He watches water drip through dark curls, down his narrow nose, curl beneath plump lips. He watches, and Arthur teases him, but the boy is so very lost. So very alone. 

Sometimes Mordred knows he is being watched. Sometimes he stares at Merlin with fire in blue eyes and a grin so feral, Merlin’s belly coils tight and he shudders. Merlin knows Mordred sees him, because Mordred strips his cape and his haubergeon gauntlets and chausses. He strips, and he does it slow, while he holds Merlin’s gaze. Merlin wonders who taught him that a simple flick of the lashes could be so seductive. 

Arthur adors Mordred. He slips him biscuits and roast meat and on occasions Merlin isn’t there to stop him, sips of his own wine. Arthur laughs at Merlin’s outrage. “He’s practically a man, now, Merlin!” 

But he isn’t. Merlin can see the innocence in the way Mordred carries his pup. He sees his youth in the hesitancy of the sword he swings. He sees it in the tremble of Mordred’s hand, when he reaches up to cup Merlin’s jaw.   
Merlin doesn’t kiss him. Not then, not yet. Because as young as Mordred is, as much innocences as he carries in his swagger, Merlin cannot forget the promised doom he brings. This Mordred knows too well. It’s in the way he drags his fingers, nail-sharp, across Merlin’s shoulders when he tells him “Arthur’s listing to the left today. You should check his right hip.” 

Sometimes Merlin finds rose petals beneath his pillow. Fragrant silken things, far to fresh and far to golden to be natural. The burns them, lets the ash stain his hands black and then he finds Mordred and smears the remains across his face. “I do not want you, Death-Bringer.” Mordred kisses his palm. Smiles bright and says “Death brings new life, ancient one.” 

Arthur wants them to get along. He doesn’t like the way the knights must choose between his servant and his newest recruit. The tension on the trips, Merlin’s cutting tongue, Mordred’s whip-sharp laughter. It puts everyone on edge, runs the animals away. Merlin wakes up on a bed of black rose petals, and Arthur orders everyone home. If he suspects his boyknight, if he suspects his servant, if he suspects either of his closest friends, if he knows of the crimes their existences speak, he keeps it to himself.

Mordred grows, into his beard, into his curls, into his affections. He’s an ever present warmth at Merlin’s back, a constant buzz in his ear. He’s a hot breath on a cold night and a pooling in Merlin’s belly that broadens as Mordred’s shoulders do. 

He’s nearly a man, Merlin thinks, when his eighteenth winter passes. He is nearly a man, and Merlin is well into a man, twenty-seven summers passed. His beard is dark and his eyes tired and his smile wane and Merlin can see no murder in the calluses of his palms. 

And then Mordred is there, before him, breath stolen from his lungs and stomach pooling read. A blow meant for Merlin, resting just below his navel. His smile, sick and twisted and so very bitter, rest behind Merlin’s molars. A poison taste, licked from the fingers of a boy who just wanted-

Merlin doesn’t know what he wanted. But he knows the ride to Camelot was quick. A frenzied race with a boy wounded and bleeding on the king’s horse. A frantic ride on a quiet night, life slipping out of a boy who is too young for the burden he bears.  _ Destiny, _ Merlin curses,  _ can feast on the remains of the Devil’s heart, for all He is worth. _

They thunder into Camelot, thunder on a quiet and clear night. They thunder in and Merlin’s heart still beats louder. They thunder in, and there’s a boy ripped from the king’s stead, and cradled in Merlin’s arms.

He spends six weeks by Mordred’s bed. He bathes his curls, won’t let Gaius trim them. He bathes his curls, on his head and his belly. He drops honey until his lips and bushes frankincense across his brow. He wreaths him rowan and hyacinth and he anoints him with oil. On occasion his prayers can be heard beneath the bell tower, but mostly Camelot hears his wails. 

Morning breaks on the seventh day, and with it, Merlin’s heart. Mordred is still, is cold. Merlin screams and it rattles Arthur’s throne. The world shifts, ripples, and Mordred sighs. 

Merlin kisses him. Slams his face into Mordred’s, all teeth and too-hard pressure. Destiny, hate-bloomed-roses, is vibrant and alive and warm beneath his hands. Should it result in the downfall of a kingdom, it is only because Merlin let it slip from his fingers.

They spend a week in a room filled with rainbow petals, before Arthur waltzes in with his smarmy grin and his knowing leer.


End file.
